The spring of love becomes hidden and soon filled up.
Soon the child learns that there are strangers, and ceases to be a child.
I believe I can even yet remember when I saw the stars for the first time.
A flower cannot blossom without sunshine, and man cannot live without love.
Childhood has its secrets and its mysteries; but who can tell or who can explain them!
Is it sin, which makes the worm a chrysalis, and the chrysalis a butterfly, and the butterfly dust?
It smote me to the heart that I had found no one in all the world who loved me more than all others.
Of these years nought remains in memory but the sad feeling that we have advanced and only grown older.
While the river of life glides along smoothly, it remains the same river; only the landscape on either bank seems to change.
Every life has its years in which one progresses as on a tedious and dusty street of poplars, without caring to know where he is.